I wrote this next song about a fisherman.

[onteamdyson]

Who: Kenzi and Sherlock
When: Late Wednesday night
Where: Sherlock's room whatever number that is
Summary: Kenzi is lonely. and bored. and then somehow she wants violin lessons.
Rating: R for potential swears?
Warnings: kenzi in general. Fights? Mean words. Underwear. Mud things.

Comments

[couldbdangerous]

"I know because I've observed. Best to know something before one needs it and yes, it has been useful in the past. Every last bit of information one could possibly learn about another person which might help one to identify or track them is key. Le bon dieu est dans la détail, or however it goes." Sherlock gave a dismissive gesture of the hand, taking his back to finish rosining his bow.

"Observing oneself is just as useful as observing others provided one doesn't get too caught up in it, in any case. I am a rather magnificent specimen, admittedly--" he gave a flourish and a bow "--but I already know where I've been and what I've done and how it has marked me. Useful when starting out, perhaps, but not so useful later. One comes to rely on foreknowledge rather than learning to work backwards, much to one's detriment during a real case. Never theorise without data. Speculation is the bane of the empirical mind. That's why I hit you. Well, that and you're supremely irritating and it was wholly satisfying, but a rather crucial part of my aforementioned magnificence is an astounding ability to multitask. Now shut up."

He set the bow down and stretched his hands, knuckles crackling, before taking both it and the violin up again. He tucked the instrument under his chin, fingers settling neatly onto strings, back straight, long legs folded underneath him. Violins were curious things. They were played by friction and so as one went on, the playing warmed the strings. The instrument came alive. It hummed into one's bones, resonated in one's skull, and at times, when there was nothing but the instrument and the sound, it seemed to respond most beautifully to the player's slightest whim. Nothing else managed both sharp and plaintive in quite the same way. It was difficult to make any other instrument cry out in agony not so very long after having teased lullabies out of singing strings.

It was important, therefore, to play the thing properly. It couldn't be rushed. The best things with which to start, the best ways to warm the hands and the strings were simple and soft and sweet, light things, idle things, to lull the mind and allow one to sneak up on the bits that mattered.

So Sherlock set bow to strings and played a simple melody, mindless pretty thing. The very best way to start. Moon river, wider than a mile...